


Gravity

by Isaac_Molotov



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 15:56:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaac_Molotov/pseuds/Isaac_Molotov
Summary: For the 12 days of Carnivale prompt: a special disguise. Set several months before Be Careful.





	Gravity

During a recent and particularly dark month of the soul, Dr. Francis Crozier had enrolled in one of his university’s many Mental Wellness seminars. He’d regretted it as soon as the confirmation email appeared with a triumphant _ding_ at the top of his inbox. As he’d expected, the whole thing merely served to underwrite his growing belief that he’d somehow come off the line mis-struck. The theme of the two-hour instruction and (god strike him dead) sharing time, was _intentionality_. The idea – conveyed through a series of aquamarine-tinted PowerPoint slides and painfully trite acronyms – seemed to be that executing every action with enough mutton-headed gusto would somehow convince the universe to extrude a perpetual stream of benevolence upon said muttonhead. Everybody but him looked to be finding some solace in the notion if their nods and smiles were any indication.

Francis ducked out as soon as his Talking Circle began drifting toward the free dainties, leaving his complimentary workbook in a convenient recycling bin. Perhaps spending the past three decades with the ghosts of men who’d set out from green and pleasant lands with gusto to spare, only to return home maimed and broken, if at all, made him hesitant to accept the power of positive thinking.

But then he’d met James.

Well, “met” was the wrong word. They’d met years before, and the breath-taking animosity Francis immediately bore toward the man was almost a welcome distraction from his mounting grievances on other fronts. “Got to know James” was the wrong way of putting it, as well. Beyond his rather shocking ideas about the Reformation and 16th century emergent globalism, Francis really didn’t _know_ anything about James. He was an alarmingly well-dressed and increasingly bearable enigma.

One did not have to know the man to be aware of his special talents, though. Francis had spent many stray thoughts trying to put a name to exactly what it was about James that made him different. The closest analogy he could find for it was gravity. In the same way that objects of great mass bent light and space and time around them, the world – events, people, everything – seemed to bend around James. To the untrained eye, it appeared that he merely had to will a thing to happen for it to come to pass. To Francis’ more observant gaze, James’ trick looked more like a stubborn refusal to admit the world might be anything other than what he thought it should be. That, and enough charm to make even a world-weary, aged and cynical professor of history sigh.

As a perfect example of the phenomenon, at James’ mere suggestion of the idea the department Holiday party was declared fancy dress.

Bridgens was the first to jump on the bandwagon, announcing that he and his new beau would be attending as Virgil and Dante, apparently worried that somebody else might claim the idea. Sophia had been asking around for a forked stick and vintage sweaters, which Francis guessed would make her a decent Margaret Mead. The graduate students had been tittering amongst themselves since the announcement, with a nervous hush descending every time a member of the faculty entered the study carrels. This could only mean they were planning the time-honoured “come as your advisor” routine.

Francis was mildly curious how Jopson intended to bring _that_ off, but had decided on a slow death by marking rather than a quick one by embarrassment, and was installed in his office while the fete clinked and roared down the hall. He was distracted from a painfully mediocre student paper on Hans Egede by an uncertain tapping on his door.

“Enter,” he said, his eyes still fixed on his marking.

His door squeaked open, and he was peripherally aware of a rather lanky undergraduate hesitating on his doorstep.

“Dr. Crozier? Is it okay if I come in?”

Francis furrowed his brow at a gory bit of grammar on the page in front of him. “Didn’t I just tell you to?”

“Yes, Dr. Crozier. Sorry, Dr. Crozier.” The visitor crossed his threshold, closing the door behind him. “It’s just – I have a question about my final grade. I've really enjoyed your course, but I've had such a difficult term, and I know I haven't done my best work for you. I was just wondering if there was anything – anything _at all_ I could do bring my marks up.”

Francis huffed, still hunched over his work, “If you have a problem with your grade, you’ll have to take it up with the student advocate. I do not allow re-writes or extra credit assignments.”

The student crossed to Francis’ desk, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“That’s not what I meant, Dr. Crozier. What I'm saying is, I’d do… _anything._ ”

The shock of adrenaline hit Francis a millisecond into the young man's breathy pause. His eyes round with alarm, he snapped his head up to see exactly who he’d be hauling in to an atrociously awkward meeting with the Dean of Students.

Standing there, clad in the unofficial student uniform of a wool beanie, tapered athletic trousers, horn-rimmed glasses, university jumper, and shaking with laughter was James sodding Fitzjames, who wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. 

When he managed a breath, he squeaked, “Francis – oh, Francis you should have seen your face. I thought I would need the AED,” before he was wracked by a fresh peal of laughter.

Francis, uncertain whether he was relieved or furious, merely sighed and dropped his head into hands.

“James, if you ever pull a caper like that again – “

“You’ll what, Francis,” James managed, his full laughs giving way to a chuckle, “take me up on my offer?”

Francis dragged his palms down his face and steepled his fingers under his chin, “Just how many glasses of Bridgens’ eggnog have you had, James?”

“Oh, I expect I’ll wake up in the third circle tomorrow morning with the rest of the intemperate gluttons. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ask you to join me for another.”

Francis considered James’ open and hopeful, if somewhat reddened face.

“I will do no such thing,” he said, and James’ face fell. Turnabout was fair play, after all. “But, I had better make sure young Jopson has not been corrupted by this debaucherous lout of a student I find before me.”

James’ face brightened as Francis capped his red pen. “And what’s your costume meant to be, Dr Crozier?”

“Tonight, James? Tonight, I am merely a moon in your orbit. Lead the way.”


End file.
